Norrköping
by Adeimantus
Summary: The following is the product of my speculation about how Eli would consume blood brought home to her by Håkan, as evidently occurred before she met Oskar in the novel.


**Norrköping**

Disclaimer:

The following is adapted from the novel Let the Right One In by John A. Linqvist and the film bearing the same name. The characters in this work are those of Mr. Linqvist and no copyright protection is asserted to this work.

Eli stared out sideways into the whitewashed bedroom through the narrow gap between the closet doors. The room beyond her dark space was brightened only by a gray metal floor lamp that was missing its shade. A yellowed piece of string dangled like a cobweb from the socket in lieu of a pull-chain. On the floor below the lamp lay a half-folded sheet, upon which were arranged her old trinkets and toys. They held no interest at present.

She rolled over and away from the room to face the shadowy backside of the closet, trying to get comfortable on the pale blue shag carpet. It didn't help. She was too hungry; too weak.

How long had he been gone? Time seemed to crawl when she felt like this. Eli sighed and curled into a fetal position, drawing her knees up and folding her arms across her chest. Felt a little better.

It had been three days since she had awoke from her last big sleep. She didn't really know how long she had been out until Håkan had shown her the calendar in the kitchen: 42 days. There were no memories, no dreams to recall from that time--they were simply gone.

Since waking up, she had been lethargic and stuporous. She remembered that they were living in the apartment here in Norrköping before she fell asleep, but was unable to recall when they had moved in. Yet her more distant memories, as when she had first encountered Håkan in Karlstad, were intact.

Falling asleep for long stretches, she had learned, had its advantages and disadvantages. It was good because she did not experience any hunger; bad because she was completely vulnerable. The mere act of waking up from her temporary oblivion was a relief, but she hated having to deal once again with . . . everything. With what she was. And more recently, with Håkan's needs.

The hunger gnawed deeper into her gut; mocking her, demanding attention. Telling her in no uncertain terms: _I will not be ignored_. With a low moan she got up, pushed back the closet doors, and crawled out and over to a portable tape player perched atop a metal step stool.

_Enough. Why even try to get comfortable? Need something to take my mind off it_.

She stabbed the Play button and Agnetha Fältskog's mellifluous voice filled the room to the sound of a guitar.

_". . . anything_

_If you see the wonder of a fairy tale,_

_You can take the future even if you fail_

_I believe in angels,_

_Something good in everything I see_

_I believe in angels,_

_When I know the time is right for me . . ."_

Eli stared dumbly at the little wheels turning inside the little plastic window. She had enjoyed the album when it had first come out a few years ago, especially _Voulez-Vous_. But this song she didn't like. The lyrics seemed laughably naïve and stupid. She heard the same kind of stuff on the radio, too. People walking around, believing in God, angels, heaven—it seemed as if they might have been from another planet. To believe in all of that . . . _must be living a different life_, she thought.

Angrily she clicked it off. She fast-forwarded the tape and sampled a few more songs, but nothing seemed to satisfy. So she stopped, and the silence returned.

She cocked her head, listening carefully. No, not complete silence: a faint patter had begun on the window behind the heavy blanket duct-taped to the wall. Putting a hand on the step stool, she unsteadily gained her feet and went to the window. Because it was dark there was no danger, so she lifted up a corner and peered out into the night.

A dark square of grass, lit by a couple of streetlights off to the left, lay before her and stretched to another apartment building across the way. Snow and sleet were beginning to fall, the wetness dripping down the glass and distorting the windows of the apartment opposite hers into splotches of yellow. No one to be seen; no sign of Håkan. Only a pallid-faced, frail little girl in a faded turquoise top staring back at her.

Eli continued to gaze vacantly out of the window. She shivered, unconsciously rubbed her stomach and thought about what was coming. Håkan would bring what she needed. _Had to_. And if he didn't? Eli shoved this thought out of her mind. _Can't think about that_.

If he—_when_ he returned with it, though, what would he want? An old, cynical voice inside her spoke up, always quick with its answer: _What he always wants, of course_. _Don't you know? There's a price to pay for everything._

As if on cue, she heard the sound of a key in the lock and the deadbolt being drawn back. Startled, she stopped frowning, turned and shuffled cautiously toward the outer hallway.

With a gust of cool air, Håkan stepped in through the door and locked it behind him. He cast a worried glance at her. His cheeks and nose were a high red color from the cold, and the ear flaps of his ushanka were down and loose, lending his face a comical, dog-like appearance. He heaved a sigh, leaned against the now closed door, and placed a large, black Adidas bag on the floor in front of her.

Eli looked at him, caught his eye. Looked down to the bag; then back to him. His mouth a thin line, Håkan nodded slightly, sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Together they crouched with the bag between them, and he unbuckled the top. He withdrew a wadded, vinyl rain poncho and set it aside. Then he pulled out a grubby plastic water jug and carefully handed it to her. Thick, dark fluid gently sloshed inside.

In a moment of genuine gratitude she took his hand into hers and touched his cheek. "Thank you. _Thank you_," she whispered.

They stood up together and Eli hugged him awkwardly, the bag and its contents still between their feet. He had been trembling, but quickly relaxed in her embrace.

With her cheek pressed against the cool, damp nylon of his jacket she asked, "Is everything all right? Did you have any—was there any problem?"

"No, it was—I just had to leave quickly, that's all. That's why it's—" he gestured at the jug—"not very full."

"Where did you go?"

"Långtorp. A park near there. Like we said."

"Did anyone see you?"

He didn't answer. Looked away and stared at the floor.

Eli withdrew from his embrace. Studied his face for a moment; said nothing. Then picked up the jug and the poncho, and moved back toward the bedroom.

He took a step after her, then stopped when she turned and spoke. "You don't want to watch, do you? Remember last time."

"No--you're right," he conceded, his face mask-like. He withdrew a flask from an inner pocket. As he retreated down the hall he said softly, "I'll be in my room. If you need anything."

Behind her locked door, Eli spread the poncho on the floor. She placed the jug in the middle of the makeshift dropcloth and knelt, the clear material crackling beneath her bare knees. She trembled with anticipation at the faint warmth she felt through the container.

She unscrewed the lid and the suddenly released, coppery odor filled her nostrils. Eli's heart beat faster and without realizing it, she licked her lips. Grasping the jug in both hands, she stared eagerly down through the small opening at the rich redness inside. One small bubble floated to the surface like a tiny eye and popped, leaving almost imperceptible ripples that briefly radiated out from its center.

Without ceremony she fastened her lips around the opening and tipped up the end of the container. Inside the blood shifted, reached the portal, and poured into her.

A torrent of exquisite goodness washed over her tongue, then completely filled her mouth. She drank deeply, like a parched man at a desert oasis. Her small Adam's apple bobbed as she chugged it down in a continuous flow. A loud gulping sound rose from her swelling throat.

When the blood hit her stomach a tingling sensation stirred there. It rapidly rose up her esophagus like a hot beam of fire and merged with the powerful concentration of pleasure in her head, and a swelling cascade of euphoria swept throughout her body. She rode with it, feeling it extend down her arms and out to her fingertips; down her legs to her feet; not caring when the warm fluid began to overflow her lips and trickle down her jaw and neck in crimson streaks. Red, irregular half-circles slowly grew and expanded at the frayed neck of her thin cotton nightshirt.

She shuddered violently and suddenly was no longer Eli. All memory, all reasoning, all caring was obliterated as her entire being became concentrated upon the stream of life pouring into her; Eli, as a person, ceased to exist. Within her mouth, ancient, 12-year-old front teeth were suddenly transformed, narrowing and sharpening themselves into fangs. Her fingers extended and became claw-like, and the plastic in their grip bent, then crumpled.

Higher and higher the thing that had been Eli raised the ruined, flattened vessel as the last bolus was sucked out. The blood splashed carelessly down its chest and splattered in thick, congealed drops onto the poncho below.

It grunted grotesquely, the thin, pale body completely erect, chest heaving, its head craned back so far that the mouth was pointed directly at the ceiling. The tongue shot out and probed into the neck of the jug, licking the interior clean as far as it could reach. Then with its talons it grasped the upended bottom of the container, tore it in half, and slammed it down onto the floor. Holding the plastic as flat as its native resilience would allow, it crouched down and lapped the surfaces clean.

A feral growl filled the room. Then the tattered and misshapen remains were hurled against the wall. On the opposite side Håkan paused, flask halfway to his lips, interrupted by the dull thunk as it ricocheted off and landed in a corner.

She returned to herself as her tongue whisked the last, fat drops off the poncho. As it busily performed its work, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and through the black strands of her hair, caught sight of her porcelain clown standing in his characteristic pose beside her egg. His usually happy smile seemed now to be a knowing grin. Next to him, her small, candle bunny stared unflinchingly at her with its little red eyes, taking in the scene.

Eli paused, then drew her tongue back into her mouth. Panting, she remained in the same position for what seemed like a long time, as if she might be preparing to play a game of leapfrog. Gradually her heart slowed to a normal rhythm.

She emitted a languid sigh, and slowly let her head drop until her cheek came to rest in the middle of where she had been licking. Her hair flattened and adhered to the sticky dregs beneath. To a stranger, she would have appeared revolting and pathetic, but she was well beyond caring about how she looked to anyone.

With immense weariness she surveyed the barren room. She searched the stuccoed wall for some pattern, but it was devoid of meaning.

Through half-lidded eyes she refocused and took in her vampire hand. _Still can't get used to it_, she thought. _Even after all these years_.

She drifted. If she could have gone to sleep, she would have; but that was impossible. So her mind continued to turn restlessly. And soon turned to that one thought that loomed, like the tip of an iceberg, in the dark sea of her consciousness.

_Who had it been_, she wondered. _Who was it that I just_—

Stop it. Stop.

Don't think. Don't . . .

_Was it a man? Probably. How old? A boy?_ _Håkan was right: the jug had not been very full. Why? _

_This will not help_, she thought. _You can't change anything. It's not your faul_—

_Did someone . . . _had_ someone--loved him?_

There was no answer. Only the sound of sleet on the window.

Silently her chest started to hitch. Her wretched, vampire hand wavered, then grew blurry as the tears began to flow.

Håkan screwed the cap back on his flask and turned on his mattress to face the wall. He heard the muffled sound of a choked sob. In fits and starts, the sobbing grew louder, and soon rose to an undulating, keening wail.

_Eli_ . . .


End file.
